Imaginative Writing. Essay 1.

The space was cleaned up every night, each night. Clean floors, clean sink, clean dishes. But your brain wasn’t clean. There was no space here on the savanna for you. You were only a meerkat or a zebra. You weren't a lion. You were too nice for that.
The clutter of living there grew a green slimy fungus that hung off of the ceiling, making stalactites and stalagmites that hung above your head. They shook when you flushed the toilet, growling under their breath. They threatened to pierce you and your cat Oscar sitting on the sofa, toes and paws curled underneath piles of blanket. Tinkle tinkle, they cried. Tinkle.
The smooth white fur of the cat on the sofa felt like baby sealskin. As you brought your nose closer, the scent of fresh soap smell curled its way out. He had a lazy eye that occasionally winked on its own. You always wondered if he had control of the wink. Sometimes it looked as though he knew what you were thinking: What if I push my roommates, push them off a cliff? Wink. Did you know I was thinking evil thoughts? Wink. Damn, you’re good. “Mew?”
The other eye was outlined in charcoal gray, like an Egyptian princess. Perhaps he was related to a sphinx in a past life. Royalty. This is why he never liked dry food and whined for milk and tuna juice. You would occasionally indulge.
“Kitty! Vagina warrior!” Your roommates, sitting on the opposite couch, would hold Oscar up, scratch his belly and discuss how forward thinking your cat was. He also looked best in purple collars. What a gender-bender of a mammal.
As you watched my roommates hold their gender discussion group getting ready for V-day (Vagina Day), you wondered if vagina-shaped scones filled with strawberry and raspberry jam were normal. Probably not.
“We want to deter the idea that feminism is bra burning and rabid angry white women,” she said. It was difficult for you to put a finger on the unease. Perhaps it was the fact that your compost bin made you queasy, or the guilty feeling you got when you threw away plastic. Perhaps it was the pseudo-lesbian relationship she shared with your other roommate. They cuddled on the couch. You cuddle on couches. They kiss on the cheek, sometimes quick lip pecks. You’ve done the same with your girlfriends.
Yet something was in the air, a smell of blood and carnage and burning brush; the town Fourth of July fireworks display was ignited ten minutes too early and you were standing right in front of the cannons, aimed directly at you. Perhaps it was Ren’s 8 hour devotion to making Jachel’s favorite dishes on her birthday, calling her up before she preheated the oven. You didn’t know.
If you were a wounded zebra and she a lioness, perhaps the fear would be quantifiable. Her hair was loud and curly enough to be a mane. Her piercing tiny blue eyes and scoured face showed stoicism, her long nose and brown hair tamed by a solitary tribal dyed hair band. Perhaps she was born of African tribes people of a fundamentalist bent, who after getting kicked off their savannah by less anarchic tribes, moved to Colorado.
She had tamed her life partner, and together they would live, growling on the lone savanna in peace, away from the pride, eating Ben and Jerry’s for the rest of their days.